


We are falling apart

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, ft. mclennon and their messy heads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: "I don't fucking care." John screamed, because if he couldn't weep he needed to find other ways to relieve the numb ache. The problem was that he did care. A lot.-- Ideally, one person would support the other, their weak phases switching rhythmically. What happens when both of them are breaking down simultaneously?
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	We are falling apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, here's your daily dose of those two learning about emotions

"Do you really like me?" 

It was uttered casually as if the entire self-confidence of John Lennon didn't stem from the answer. He knew he shouldn't have asked the moment he actually opened his mouth. No one would like to have an adult baby as their boyfriend. Needy, needy, needy.

"I love you, I adore you, you daft lad."

If the question caught Paul off guard, he didn't let it translate to his facial features. "He loves me," John repeated in his head and, to his immense surprise, it was not enough to soothe the anxiety. 

"Well, how am I supposed to know that?" John ignored his inner voice screaming at him to retreat before he would cause yet another pointless argument. He had been feeling like losing his mind, which wasn't a foreign concept to him, but for the last weeks, months even, it had seemed like every wound John carried decided to tear open. He practised mentioning it to Paul, but the same sentences lost their level-headed level once echoing through the room, real emotions seeping through them. To add to the terrific humiliation, John noticed his voice getting higher and desperate.

The movement of Paul's hands preparing a toast froze, his hazel eyes staring at his boyfriend in confusion. "What do you mean? I do show you, don't I? I wouldn't be here if I didn't love you."

John blinked away the frustration of Paul not grasping it. Of course, he was very well aware of this perfectly rational reasoning. Except he didn't live in a perfectly rational world. How could Paul act so normal? Suddenly furious, John raised up, muttering an angry 'forget it' before stumbling to the garden. He registered the scared expression plaster across Paul's face, wanted to reassure him for a brief second, but the realisation of his helplessness just fueled the rage.

For a moment, he expected tears rolling down his cheeks, would prefer that, actually, as crying sometimes helped him to let go, pleasantly tiring him. His eyes burned instead, reminding him of his whole existence. 

Burnt out. Dried out. Parched. Annoying.

He sat down, curling into himself, wondering if someone like him could ever heal. John's hope he had tried to maintain for so long withered rapidly, leaving him with stinging eyes and a crumbling relationship. His body folded over, the auburn head resting on the bony knees, he chose not to see.

The buzzing inside his head covered the sounds of the back door opening and steps inching closer. I didn't prevent him from feeling the touch, though, and John flinched when a hand settled on his shoulder, before Paul's body slid down to sit next to him.

"It's cold, Johnny," he whispered, tentatively as if testing the waters. 

"I don't fucking care." John screamed because if he couldn't weep, he needed to find other ways to relieve the numb ache. The problem was that he did care. A lot.

A beat of silence stretched, tricking John into thinking he did it, actually pushed Paul away this time, after all those years, he succeeded. 

Then the hand came back, tangling into his messy hair and patting it awkwardly. Somehow, the lack of Paul's natural smoothness made it all more intense.

"Well, I-I do, a lot in fact, and I'm going to sit here until you decide you don't fancy catching pneumonia." 

The words gritted through Paul's teeth, stubbornness colouring every syllable as he draped a coat around John's slumped form.

Then, much quietly added. "Do you like me at all?" 

John's head shot up in a panic, the unexpected question causing his heart to thump faster. He even dared to sneak a glance to the other man's direction, immediately shying away. Paul was gazing into space, drops of vulnerability, defeat and tiredness pouring from his motionless stance.

John lifted his hand, probably to offer a pinch of reassurance, considered it pathetic. What was one arm rub going to change? 

His throat started to itch, almost as if announcing a forthcoming cold, but John recognised it as a sight of reaching the breaking point. It was a signature occurrence for him, in some way, things he wished for always came to him at the wrong time. Paul stuck to his side when he pushed him away. Now it looked like he found the strength to escape, and John's eyes were welling. Such a weak human being.

He gulped down the tears and spoke to no one. 

"I do love you," he paused, inhaling sharply because it felt like he was suffocating. "I-very much."

"I think I can't go on like-like that. I don't know if you like me, or love me, or if you just need someone to lash on without any consequences. I do love you, but I sometimes wish I wouldn't a-and wouldn't care about you loving me back. It's not fair." 

It started just above a whisper, the words drawn out reluctantly like Paul wished he could decide against finishing the speech. Then it broke, and the last few words were almost yelled in a wobbly, sad voice. 

"I tell you-" John trailed off, realising what he considered the truth was a lie. 

"No, you don't tell me, John. That's the problem. And you don't show me, either. And yet, you are constantly urging me to give you more. And-" Paul's voice broke for a second, John wished it would stop there, his ego telling him not to listen. "-and when I do something you decide to mock me. Just like you did in Hamburg, because I wasn't what, cool enough? So, how am I supposed to trust you with my emotions, when you can switch off, telling everybody what a pathetic faggot McCartney is."

"I...I," John repeated a few times, his mouth getting drier and drier with each attempt. He gave up, it wasn't about him, after all. The person he considered dearest had been hurting because of him, no half mumbled apologies could save them. He estimated it right before, this was their breaking point. 

Or could be. The breaking point of their relationship as they knew it. 

"It's cold, Paulie." He mimicked his lover's earlier efforts and slowly straightened himself before offering his hand to the figure next to him. "I decided that pneumonia doesn't sound like fun."

Something tugged at his heart when Paul clutched his cold hand, didn't let it go even after he, too, stumbled into a standing position.

****

Once inside, pleasant warmth surrounding them, John focused all his strength not to choose the to-run-away option. With bitterness, he acknowledged life wouldn't be perfectly happy without Paul like he liked to flatter himself. Nor would be Paul's. Not really.

Because they belonged together, offered the other endless galaxies of inspiration. At least they used to. John became aware of the imbalance he caused in their relationship. He owed Paul to try his best.

They launched into a quiet routine -- Paul meticulously preparing the tea, while John rearranged the pillows on the sofa. Both of them praying the other would interrupt the silence, equally dreading the very same thing

"Ehm," John cleared his throat, trying to ignore Paul's puffy eyes. "Can we talk?" It earned him a tiny shrug, and he rushed to clarify. "About you, I meant."

Paul stared at him, eyes wide as a deer in danger, his hand twirling a tea-spoon absent-mindedly. "Me?"

"You. Like, what would you like me to do to make you feel like you can open up." 

Paul frowned, continuing the momentum with his hand. Did that for another 5 minutes, John patience suffering as seconds ticked by. There must be something he could do, right? There was always something people could do. 

"I'd like you to help me."

"Help you." John repeated, awestruck, the words tasting foreign when he looked at the familiar face. Never ever had he witnessed Paul asking for help. 

"Yeah, like when there is an issue to discuss with Brian or George, and you are acting like it's nothing. Or when you laugh at me because I scrutinise everything, but you don't realise I do it for you, too. Something like that, you know...it makes me feel like I'm annoying you." The last sentence almost didn't reach John's ears, inaudible, Paul's face flushed with embarrassment.

"Or around the house?" John suggested, recalling many instances when he poked fun at Paul cleaning up or scribbling down a too-precise grocery list. It seemed like he hit the nail on the head, Paul's mouth opening slightly before he nodded.

"That-that too, sometimes, like writing things we run out of or helping me to cook, I would like that." 

John relished the timid smile Paul shot him, cursing himself for not noticing earlier how his behaviour could affect the others. Or, rather, noticing but choosing to ignore. "Alright, I will try my best, I promise, yeah?" 

They sat quietly, sipping on their hot beverage, the atmosphere less tense. In sense, it almost felt like they were at the beginning of that mayhem. Just two of them, happy to find a person to share their passion with.

"John?"

He hummed to signal he was listening, noticing how the evening approached silently, shadows veiling the garden.

"How did you mean that with me telling you?"

The question took him aback, echoing in his head, half mockingly. "How did I mean that?" John's body fidgeted, blood rising to his cheeks, as he pondered the correct way to put it. 

"Well, I mean, like compliments? I guess, whenever I do something you just nod. Like yer old man. 'Nicely done, John, boy, how did the math exam go? A+ I shall hope.' And it feels like I'm not good enough. Or n-not trying, yeah? And when I feel bad, it really messes my head. Because what if you find someone who is better and doesn't need you applauding them after each step?"

"So," Paul listened intently, the clogs in his head twisting. "Something akin to affirmation? Like acknowledging you, but with words? Little praises?" 

Little praises. John shivered merrily just at the prospect of it. A gentle voice telling him his music was good, admiring his doodles, hushing the angry voices inside his head that claimed otherwise. His entire life he had longed for someone to do that, was too prideful to ask, fearing the rejection. But when Paul said it, wrapping the degrading edge with true interest, John's heart fluttered. 

"Yeah, little praises." He confirmed, avoiding any eye contact. "Little praises sound very nice."

"You know," Paul fiddled with the now empty cup, "I will try my best, too."

John wordlessly extended his hand to interlock their fingers. Squeezed gently. A gesture of comfort, surrender, promise...

Paul squeezed back. 


End file.
